Adventures in Dating (Apps)

In my therapy session earlier this week, my therapist suggested downloading a dating app as a means to distract myself/get over my recent heartbreak.  She also mentioned that these apps could be good for ego boosts.  My response was, "I don't think my ego is really the problem right now."  And it's really not.

When she and I started talking about possible future relationships, I drew a blank.  All I could think was that my current circle of friends is made up of people who either have partners or are not people I'm interested in dating, often both.  Because they're my friends, not potential romantic partners. My therapist said, "Then it's time to widen your circle."

She then suggested I look at some of the dating apps out there.  She said, "Tinder," and I think physically reacted negatively.  She also mentioned Bumble as being more women-friendly, and I thought, Yeah, I remember hearing about that.

I told her the thought of a dating app terrified me.  But I couldn't quite nail down or express why, but my feeling was very visceral.

The last time I tried meeting people online was pre-text message era!  We're talking like "Yahoo personals" or something.  And then some years later, maybe Match.com?  But even then, it was the same five lesbians on every site; I'm pretty sure I had coffee with all of them.

So after therapy, I downloaded Bumble (for free) on my phone.  And then I didn't touch it for 24 hours.  I mean, I didn't even open the app.

Then, when I did open the app, it said, "Connect with Facebook," and I immediately closed it again.

Then, because I'm a nerd, I did some research.  I found a nice "how to" article from Business Insider of all places.  By the next time I dared open the app again, I felt a tad better and a bit more informed.  And I read the fine print beneath the "Connect with Facebook" promising me that the app doesn't post to Facebook ever.  And even then, I made several changes to the access the app had to my Facebook profile for  my own peace of mind.

I went about "setting up" my profile; however, there's very little to actually "set up," especially if you just import six pictures (the max allowed) from your Facebook profile.  I was surprised (and therefore scared) at how fast it was.  No surveys to fill out, no questionnaires about my hobbies and what kind of cheese I like to eat.  I had to condense myself into a brief bio -- not too hard to do for an actor as I have to write them all the time for show programs.

And then I found a button to make my profile "private," and I hit that little fucker so fast!  "Private" on Bumble (apparently) means that no one can see your stuff, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden reprieve and a chance to tweak my profile/bio a bit.

And during all of the above, I had butterflies in my stomach -- and not the excited, happy kind.  This was trepidation, not anticipation.  But all I could reason was that it's all so new (and new is scary, change is bad, etc. etc.).  So I gingerly waded back into the fray.

And then I hit my next conundrum:  there is no way to "skip" a profile.  You must decide, then and there, if you want to swipe right (good) or swipe left (bad) before you can see any other profiles.  And I have yet to figure out or see how the order of profiles is chosen¹.

So of course I started to freak out a bit.  What if I changed my mind?  What if I miss somebody good?  What if I want to compare to the next profile?

And then the crux of it:  I did not want to swipe ripe.  I was terrified to do so.

And it wasn't until a few minutes later in the bathroom (of all places), sitting on the toilet, when I made the stunning realization of why and why all of this was so frightening to me.  I'm still trying to unpack it all, but I'll do my best to explain it here.

My first, unbidden thought about a dating app, and then "swiping right" was:  But then they can see me!

I recognized that non-butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I didn't want to invite their attention.
At. All.

Because then what?
Then I'm stuck with them.
How do I get rid of them?

Things like
Tease
Well, you were asking for it
You invited me
bounced through my head.

Inviting attention like this felt akin to interacting with cat-callers and street harassers (which I don't do).  Just keep your head, girl; just keep on walking.

I flashed back to a date I had in 2006-ish with a man.  We met for drinks at his apartment first, before dinner.  Sitting on his couch, mid-conversation, mid-sentence even!, he leaned over and put his mouth on mine in a slightly insistent (and not all that great) kiss.  I was more shocked than anything at the time.  Yes, I had agreed to a date, but that didn't automatically mean (forcing) a kiss, let alone in the first 20 minutes!  I didn't like the kiss, and then I still had to suffer through the rest of the date.

I thought of my stalker and our original coffee meet-up/non-date.

And through all of this, and telling some of the briefest bits of these insights to a couple of friends, I tried not to cry at my desk at work.  On my birthday, no less!

I thought back to the old days of the Internet and some of the BDSM forums, trying to extricate myself from people I clearly wasn't interested in but had made the mistake of being "nice" to.

I didn't (and don't) want any of that again.  I didn't (and don't) want to be accused of leading anyone on².  I didn't want to "swipe right" unless I was absolutely sure I could "follow through" (with what?  what the fuck does that even mean??) -- and that's not how these apps are designed, even the ones that are designed for more than just random hook-ups.

And that's when I realized I'm not ready for this yet.  That's a lot of baggage to unpack, mostly (though certainly not only) due to toxic masculinity.

Everything is still too new, my heartbreak too fresh; I'm still too tender and bruised.

One thing about the person who did break my heart:  I felt very safe with and around them, both physically and emotionally.  There was very little holding back of feelings and words, the freedom of which was exhilarating.
-- up until the moment they broke my heart, of course.  That almost goes without saying.

So today I messaged two of the five "matches" I had made³ and basically said, "Sorry, I'm not ready for this dating thing; I did enjoy your profile."  And then I made my profile "private" again.
I didn't owe them that (or anything), but in addition to not wanting to be rude, I might want to find them again when/if I return to the wide, wide world of online dating.

But Jesus H. Christ!  Who would have thought that one free app and sitting on the toilet alone with my thoughts would bring to light so. many. issues.

And I don't just mean with me.

I mean with our society that has instilled such fear in me -- a forty-year-old woman -- making me too paralyzed to "swipe right."

¹I have emailed the Bumble staff about that; rather, I put down that I'm interested in both men and women, yet I'm only getting men's profiles.  The only way I've been able to see women's profiles is if I change it to women only.

²One of the things I appreciate about Bumble is that men can't initiation conversations.  At. All.  Once a "match" has been made, the woman has 24 hours to start a conversation (another conundrum/source of stress for me -- the time limit!).  After that, the "match" disappears.  If both people are same-sex, either can initiate conversation.

³Only if both people have "swiped right," will you both be alerted that a "match" has been made.  So far only 5 of us had done so.  But for my ego boost, Bumble kept showing me the number of people who had already "swiped right" for me, offering to show those profiles first (if I upgraded the app and paid them money).  That number was last at 50+.  Yay me.

Regarding Suicide

As another celebrity suicide hits the front page (may you be at peace, Anthony Bourdain), my various social media feeds are filling up with friends posting numbers, hotlines, and general messages of support and love, in particular saying "you are loved."

And sometimes I find that baffling.  Let me explain.

I'm not untouched by suicide:  I've lost both a dear friend and a dear friend's husband to it.  Not to mention, of course, my own attempts at it.  And when these messages pop up, they give me pause.

Because I don't think I have ever once, not during my attempts or any of the many suicidal thoughts that flit through my head, thought, "I want to kill myself because no one loves me."  In fact, I don't think I think of other people at all.  And maybe that's the point.

Please don't misunderstand.  I am only one mentally ill individual, and even people with the same mental diagnoses can have vastly different experiences of the disease.  I can only speak for myself and my own broken brain in this case.

In my case, when those thoughts come creeping in, it's because of endless hours of simply existing, of surviving.  There's a Jane Austen quote, of all people, that sums it up for me:  "Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings" (Mansfield Park).  Now replace "quick" with "endless," and that's often how I feel.  And I think, How am I going to get through this?  This week?  This day?  These next two hours?  Sometimes days just seem to stretch on and on forever, with me just hanging there in a continual state of ennui.  And it is exhausting.

But I don't think of the rest of you.  I don't think No one loves me.  Or Everyone hates me.  I don't think about what people might think or do or say when/if I'm gone.  I don't think of other people at all.  Suicidal thoughts are a profoundly solitary activity.  I simply think of not being able to handle the burden of living anymore, of finding ways to fill up all of that awful space and time.

The only time I do think of people outside of myself is the occasional passing thought that there are people out there who have "normal" lives.  There are people out there who don't wake up every morning hating every fucking thing.  What is that like??  There are people out there who go through twenty-four hours feeling fine, if not great, even physically, not wracked with constant pain, aches, and fatigue.  There are people out there who, when asked, "How are you?" they say, "Great!" and they actually mean it.

That blows my fucking mind.

I know "How are you?" is a greeting, not a real question of my state of things, which is why I usually respond with "Fine" or "Okay."  Because you know what?  I don't ever, nor will I ever, feel "good" or "great," and I find it hard to lie.  So yeah, the most you'll get out of me on a daily basis is "fine" or "okay" or even "meh."  And sometimes even that is a stretch.

A good friend (who shall remain nameless) recently said to me, "Sometimes you seem so unhappy, and I can never quite figure out why."
And I responded with:  "It's called being mentally ill.  It's part of my DNA, my chemical make-up.  This is just how things are."

I know it may not seem like it.  With my theatre and my shoe fetish and my love of kittehs, but it's there.  And it never goes away.  Most days are a struggle of some kind.

But it's not because I don't think people love me.  It's because my cells are constantly tired of existing and my brain lies to me about why I'm here and what's going on, and it's an uphill battle every day to convince my body and head otherwise.

Suicide Prevention Hotline:  1-800-273-8255

One Year

My Unit and I enjoyed a nice, relatively quiet 4th of July yesterday.  We worked on the house, going through the pile of items my parents brought with them 3 weeks ago ("you might need it!").  That took a couple of hours, complete with smoke/drink breaks.  We tried (semi-successfully) to use our new charcoal grill (note to self:  I am far too impatient for this charcoal nonsense; I miss my gas grill).

There were loud booms of fireworks, but it was so incredibly different from the city.  Instead of a barrage of sounds for three days straight, at all times of day and night, things mostly started after 8 p.m.  And yes, they were loud -- bigger, more professional grade pyrotechnics -- but also farther away.  No one was shooting them right outside our house or in the dumpster in the alley.  Our dogs didn't like the noises, of course, but it was much more manageable.  Not the 75+ pounds of shaking, panting dogs like before.  That was a nice change.

And now it's July 5th.  I'm back at work.  And it's been one year.  Sometime during this day, one year ago, you went ahead and decided to pull the trigger.  Literally.  I don't know if it was during the morning (those are hardest for me) or during the night (those were hardest for you) or sometime in between, when you crawled into your bathtub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and put a pistol in your mouth.  Pulling the curtain closed was so you; it minimized the mess for those who had to clean up afterward.  Considerate to the very end.  They told me you even left your laptop and cell phone on the office desk, passwords and things all organized and easily accessible.  This was no rash act; you had planned.

I wouldn't find any of this out until late at night on the 6th.  I had gone to bed ridiculously early because I was worn out from a doctor's appointment and blood draw earlier in the day.  My phone kept going off, so finally, by around 10:30 p.m. I said, "What?!??" to my phone and looked at it.  Looked at the flood of messages.  "Do you know yet?"
"Are you okay?"
"Oh my God."

It took some scrolling to get to the heart of the matter, and I went cold with shock.  Then I had to go to the living room, wake my sleeping Unit on the couch, and in a state of half-asleep, tell her that you had killed yourself.  That you were gone.  And she cried out -- literally cried out -- "Noooo!" in a high-pitched tone that she rarely uses because it's completely unfiltered emotion, almost keening.

And I just sat on the bed and stared later while she cried.  "Why aren't you crying??" she asked me.  I couldn't.  Just shock.  I couldn't even mourn until the next afternoon (July 7th).  I made an emergency visit with my therapist and just sobbed on her couch.  "I don't know what to do with this!" I said.
And I didn't.
Sometimes I still don't.

I don't know how to handle the weight of this information, the raw emotional burden of this act of violence, of desperation, of finality.  Do I talk about it?  Do I hold it close?  "What am I supposed to do?" I kept saying over and over again.
I still don't know.

My therapist asked, in terms of "doing something," were there other people who might be affected that I might want to reach out to?  "Are any of your friends a suicide risk?"
"Well, according to the messages I've been getting, it's me," I said with a tearful laugh.  Gallows humor.

Thank you to the handful of people who texted me personally during the aftermath.  "Are you okay?" and "How are you doing?" are code for "checking in on you."  And I greatly appreciate it.  One of the major triggers for suicides is...other suicides.  So I know what you were doing, and I appreciate it more than I can adequately say.  You know who are you.

I am not the spokesperson for depression, mental health, and/or suicide attempts.  Not really.  It's a burden I bear relatively quietly; transparency is all good in theory, but I don't do it a lot of it in real life.  But it's here.  It's me.  Hello, my name is Leonard, and I'm mentally ill.

The evening of the 7th a handful of us closest would gather near, drink wine, and read over the statement to be released about your death.  And I cried reading it aloud, but I was so very grateful that it acknowledged everything that had happened.  It needed to be said aloud.

And then we heard the entire story, the process over three days of what had happened.  No gratuitous, gory details; just the facts, ma'am, hard, cold, horrible facts.  I needed to hear them.  I requested to know the details; I needed to know to make sense of it all, and GFB obliged.

There would be more crying; not quite as much drinking as I would have imagined.  And then, exactly one week later, a tree would destroy my house, nearly kill my Unit, and our lives would be uprooted and changed, again, forever.  Was that you?  I often wonder.  You knew how we felt about living in the city.

And another week after that, six of us would get covered in sweat and dirt and dust while completely cleaning out your apartment.

Sometimes it's like you're not really gone.  You still show up on m "On This Day" on Facebook:  your posts with jokes about grammar and cats and knitting.  I still remember your last text to me ("Fabulous job tonight, as always!  Thanks for all you do," after last year's theatre crawl).  And I swear, I could have rounded the corner into the office next to the dressing room just the other week and found you there, typing away.  But you weren't.

I said hello to you anyway, just in case.

One year.  525,600 minutes (thanks for counting, Rent!).  I don't have anything profound to say.

Let's Talk Stalking

January 2016 is National Stalking Awareness month, and naturally, Leonard has something to say about that.  But first, a story.

Once upon a time Princess Leonard Leonora was cast in a show playing an actual princess.  The show came at a very difficult time; Leonora was in the midst of a very public, very messy divorce.  Leonora's ex had also been cast in the show; at the time of casting, they were still married.  Leonora's soon-to-be-ex-husband quickly dropped the show before rehearsals started, during the divorce process.  Leonora couldn't understand why.  Their characters barely had any stage time together, and when they did, they hated each other; where's the acting part?

The night immediately after said soon-to-be-ex-husband dropped the show due to impending divorce, I got a call (while performing elsewhere).  The caller was from one of my future cast mates suggesting we get coffee or lunch together sometime soon, since we would be working together.  It was at this time that my "silent alarm" went off, for a couple of reasons.

1. People using the cast contact list for non-work-related reasons should be treated with suspicion.  One must have a very good reason to use a work distribution list to contact a near-stranger for something personal.
2. For whatever reason, this man, this cast mate, gave me that knot in my stomach.  My inner alarm said, "DANGER WILL ROBINSON!"  And I should have listened.  But I didn't.

As I've written before, we (especially women) are too often taught to "give people the benefit of the doubt," even despite our gut reactions.  This man never once said the word "date," which was good because I had no intention of dating him, ever.  It's just a friendly coffee between friends, right?  Except we weren't friends.  I barely knew him.  It's possible that we could become friends during the rehearsal process, but we hadn't started rehearsing yet.  So against my better judgment I agreed to a coffee meet.

We had coffee on an afternoon, and it was weird.  I still had that silent alarm going in my head and gut, but I did my "due diligence."  I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  I had coffee; I was polite.  And I had no intention of ever doing more than that, besides doing a show together.

Now it's been some time since these events occurred, so you'll have to excuse me if they get out of order.

We started the rehearsal process, and this man kept paying me undue (unwanted) attention, but not always the positive kind.  One night during rehearsal he called a stop to the scene just as I was opening my mouth to say my line -- more than ten times in a row, at the exact same time every time, breaking character.  (Typically actors only stop when the director asks them to stop [or "hold"], and he was most definitely not the director.)

Before we broke for Thanksgiving, he brought me "gifts":  a sparkly glitter tiara that said "BITCH" on it and a copy of the book Even Cowgirls Get the Blues with the "instructions" that I should read it during our holiday break from rehearsal.

Once, he asked me if I could be backstage when he got done with a scene to help him "calm down" like "Alice would to Henry" (our characters' names).  I actually started to laugh out loud because I thought he was joking.  I, of course, said no; I was on the other side of the stage getting ready for the next scene (not to mention the outrageous creepiness of the request).

One night he claimed that the train of my dress was ruining the scene because it was in his way.  I offered to try to move it a bit out of the way, but we had a small 4x4 platform we were on; act around it.

During the rehearsal process, he started a thread on a local theatre discussion board about on-stage kissing, and then he forwarded to my e-mail all of the responses, first saying he was "just trying to give some advice."  When I asked him to please stop emailing me, he claimed (repeatedly) that I was "ruining the scene" (where we had to awkwardly kiss; the kiss was supposed to be awkward and brief).

One night at rehearsal he screamed at me from across a staircase (during a break):  "I'm just trying to discuss what's going on between us!"
To which I yelled back, flabbergasted, "There is NOTHING between us except air!"
"I'm just trying to be your friend!" he yelled.
"I'm friends with the rest of the cast, they don't feel the need to talk about it!" I said.

And that night he called my phone.  All of my phones.  My home phone, my cell phone, leaving a message on one, then calling the other when I wouldn't pick up, nearly non-stop for over an hour.

At some point during this, yes, I should have spoken up; I should have talked to our director.  But I didn't want to rock the boat.  I wanted a good show.  I didn't want to be accused of being a "diva," of being "hard to work with" (Princess Leonora no longer gives a shit about those things, especially when personal safety is on the line).  And I thought I could "handle it"; I thought he'd just go away.

Then a friend of mine lent me a book of his, Obsession:  The FBI's Legendary Profiler Probes the Psyches of Killers, Rapists, and Stalkers, and Their Victims and Tells How to Fight Back.  
I still get chills when I realize/remember that a book outlined, step by step, what was happening to me right then and there.  Here are some key points:

• The giving of unwanted gifts is literally a textbook sign of stalking
• Assuming there is a relationship where none exists is also a sign
• Explosive, unpredictable behavior (what the rest of us might call "mood swings")

The final straw was during a performance, in the dressing room, when he called me a "cunt" in front of the rest of the cast because -- frankly, I don't remember why.  I don't think it matters why.  The man had problems "acting around" my dress; it's not like he was a stable entity.  The director called my home repeatedly that night to make sure I was okay; she was very worried when she couldn't reach me (I was actually sleeping elsewhere that night).  She told me to just try to avoid him as much as possible (which I was); the run was almost over.  But not before he also contacted my ex-husband via e-mail to complain about what a bitch I was.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband had to call me up to ask if this was true?  Was I being a bitch?  Was I saying horrible things about him (the ex-husband) in front of the cast?

My response:  "We're going through a divorce.  Of course, I'm saying mean things about you.  Who wouldn't?"  Then I proceeded to detail all of the shit this man had done and said over the course of the past couple of months, ending with "this probably wouldn't have happened if you had not dropped the show.  I doubt he would have done it in front of you."

An immature response?  Absolutely.  I'm not going to defend that choice, especially as it's not the point here.

The point is:  I should have listened to my gut.  I should have spoken up at any point during the above actions.  If you feel uncomfortable around a person, it shouldn't have to take them calling you a "cunt" for people (including yourself) to realize something is wrong.  Stalkers are real.  Stalkers exist. Stalking is considered a crime in all 50 states. It is a very big deal when someone does not respect the boundaries you have set.  And it is a very big deal when someone exhibits just one or two of the behaviors list above, let alone all three.

If you feel uncomfortable around a person, if they are beginning to exhibit stalking behaviors, please follow these steps:

• Listen to your gut.
• Document everything.  
• Set firm boundaries with the person.
• It's very possible a person you are required to interact with does not realize they overstepped a boundary.  It's still okay to set boundaries and to let them know they have overstepped them.  That does not make you a bad person, a bitch, a tease, or a cunt.
• You have not overreacted.  It is a big deal, and if you don't speak up about your boundaries, no one will.
• Speak up to the person(s) in charge, louder and louder until someone listens.
• Go up the "food chain" if necessary.
• Even if you are not asking for repercussions for this individual, people need to be aware of what has happened.
• Remember:  it is not your decision whether or not the behavior is stalking.  You don't have to have the pressure to make that judgment call; that is the job of a law enforcement official.  It is your decision to realize that something is not right, that someone is overstepping your personal boundaries -- physical, emotional, or otherwise -- and to speak up about it.
• Everyone has the right to feel safe at their place of employment, in their homes, and frankly, in everyday life.

Leonard has more stalker stories, but the above is one of the worst.  I also have another story from a former colleague, but it is not my story to tell.  I can tell you that the part that made me livid was when our mutual supervisor (also a woman) basically told my friend to "not worry about it," that it "wasn't a big deal," to basically "just ignore it."

Fuck that shit.

Should someone tell you that, feel free to tell them that Leonard said "Fuck that shit!" I will happily send them a Strongly Worded Letter about it.